


i keep a window for you; it's always open

by icicaille



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Emotional Baggage, Finger Sucking, M/M, Or: Franky Got Fingered, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25696027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/pseuds/icicaille
Summary: It was agreeable, Francis had no shame in admitting—a luxury, even, something halfway decadent, with the both of them wet and slippery where they touched. His breathing steadied, and he closed his eyes as James’ thumb moved in gentle circles.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 40
Kudos: 120





	i keep a window for you; it's always open

**Author's Note:**

> I'd originally thought to dash off a tiny little ficlet for a prompt posted last week on FFA: "100 words: fingering as the main event." Sadly, things did not go to plan, and we got... whatever this is. 
> 
> Title from "Want You in My Room" by Carly Rae Jepsen.

Francis's thighs were sticky with oil. He thought, perhaps, that he ought to be repulsed by the slickness between his legs—an indistinctly unclean sensation that brought to mind the spend-soiled nightshirts of his boyhood. At James’ behest, he raised his right knee and tucked it into his chest. His cock lay sleepily against his hip.

James, bracketed behind him, rubbed his flank soothingly. “May I?” he said, nipping at Francis’ neck.

Francis grunted. A moment later, he felt the earnest questing of James’ thumb at his rim. He braced himself, but James did not venture further, merely skirted the edge over and over until Francis relaxed his taut muscles. It was agreeable, he had no shame in admitting—a luxury, even, something halfway decadent, with the both of them wet and slippery where they touched. His breathing steadied, and he closed his eyes as James’ thumb moved in gentle circles. For how long, Francis could not say; he had been lulled into a kind of daze.

Presently, James murmured, “Good, yes,”—more to himself than Francis, it seemed—and withdrew. Francis heard the telltale popping of the bottle’s cork, then felt the brush of two oiled fingers, which only stroked at him fleetingly—a demure kiss, such as a lady might proffer in her garden—before they sank in. The way was smooth and easy, with none of the bone-dry roughness that James sometimes preferred. Francis’ mouth opened, but he did not cry out; he only wished he had James’ throat before him to bite, James’ shoulder to press his face against. He reached back blindly, searching for some essential element of James to hold, and settled for clutching James’ thigh.

“All well, old boy?” 

Francis did not reply, only inhaled sharply through his nose when James’ fingers were fully sheathed. He could not ascribe a name to the feeling. An ache in his spine, a pleasure fiercer and more cavernous than he’d ever gotten from a hand or a mouth. “Yes, go on,” he managed. His cock stirred.

James crooked the two fingers within, and Francis shuddered. Then James dug his thumb and smallest fingers into the flesh of Francis’ arse as leverage and took up a vigorous rhythm. Francis did not shrink at the sordid sucking sounds that accompanied it. The pressure was good, right, satiating some deep-rooted need which had only just unveiled itself. Yet he sought more. He was an explorer, born to seek undiscovered country, worlds unknown—surely he could take it.

He said as much to James, who made a soft sound of satisfaction into Francis’ neck and slipped in another finger. The stretch was nothing. Francis chased the push and pull of James’ fingers with tiny writhing motions of his hips, anchored only by the hand he still kept wrapped around James’ thigh. Three became four soon enough. Stiff against his belly, Francis’ cock had begun to leak in dribbling spurts.

“You open so easily for me, Francis,” James said. “You _are_ sure no other man has had you so?” He laughed, and his breath ruffled Francis’ hair. “Your ears are very red.” He kissed the shell of Francis’ right to show he was only teasing, though Francis bristled nevertheless.

“Oh, _oh_ , damn your eyes,” he said, punctuated by jagged breaths, when James took Francis’ earlobe between his teeth and bit down with a proprietary savagery.

The point of Francis’ pleasure had unfurled, radiating like shooting sparks throughout his limbs. This time, he could not help his moans, which sprang from his lips with a startling volume. But neither could he help the tang of shame that curdled in his gut. James, who ordinarily had such a loud, filthy mouth on him that he ought to be on offer in an East End brothel, was quiet apart from a few choice words of reassurance. As James drove deeper and deeper, Francis could not seem to put a stopper on it all, and found himself feeling rather hideously exposed—like a fish whose sallow underbelly had been gut and laid out for inspection.

The insistent rush of desire suddenly gave way to a well-worn unease. He was glad James could not see his face, which was no doubt dappled with an unsightly flush. _Thank you, but I’m afraid this isn’t to my tastes_ , he could say. Turn them over and feed James’ eager arse his cock just as he liked—just as he begged Francis to do nearly every night and some mornings to boot.

James stilled. “Francis.”

“What is it?” Francis said, half-surprised by the snap in his voice. But it was little wonder James had caught him out so quickly. James was fluent in the lexicon of his every tone, glance, posture, movement.

“You’ve drifted. Does this not please you?” 

“Well, you have sufficiently readied your captain,” Francis said sourly, thinking to hasten the whole affair to its eventual ignoble end. “We may now proceed to buggery.”

“Oh, no,” James said. Airy, as he always was when countering Francis’ daily grousing. “I find myself perfectly content. This is a joy all on its own.”

There was proof plenty of James’ satisfaction: he was hard where he pressed up against Francis, and the ripe sweat on his skin made Francis’ back and legs sticky where they touched. But Francis could not countenance James being so abstemious in his pursuits, not when his climax might very well go unreached. “How will you—”

“Francis, I have steered my mind toward the most disagreeable of images these last minutes lest I spend prematurely. You’ve no idea what a picture you make, do you? Good Christ, you inflame me like this.”

“Come off it,” Francis scoffed, blushing.

“I seek to please you in everything I do, for _you_ never fail to please _me_ ,” James said. “I do try, though I know I cannot hope to equal your care and consideration for my happiness.” His speech had taken on a pleading quality. “So will you permit me?”

For two who cherished each other to excess, they could make quite a pair at times. Francis yearned to put it into words: that he understood the precise, peculiar nature of these anxieties intimately because they, too, plagued his waking hours. That only when their hurts were aired could they make a stab at soothing them. He supposed it was not the thing to do with James’ fingers up his arse, however, so he spared a brief caress for James’ thigh and said, “Yes, James.”

“Very good, Captain,” James replied. Francis could hear the smile in his voice.

He scarcely had time to compose himself before James took up his postillioning once more—it was unhurried, though, gentle, as though Francis were a horse liable to be spooked. As desire returned and made its wants plain, Francis found himself grinding back against James’ strokes, seeking the incandescent flash of pleasure that hovered just out of reach. He could find it with a good frig, but the thought of coming apart at James’ hands fairly stole the air from his lungs—so he swallowed his pride and said, “Harder.”

James slipped two fingers out—“Easier this way,” he said—and renewed his efforts. “Shall I tell of you the time I first received this particular delicacy?” He hooked his chin over Francis’ shoulder. “In ’32, I sailed on the _Hind_ through the Greek Islands. There was a fellow on the ship by the name of Philipps, a third lieutenant, who I’d been making eyes at for some time. The night he summoned me, I’d expected him to give me a good rogering with his prick and send me back to my hammock. But he gave me his fingers instead; told me I might even prefer it to buggery.”

“You enjoyed it?” Francis asked. His arse had become slack and loose; even so, he bore down around James’ fingers as they glided in and out, emitting strangled little gasps in time with James’ thrusts.

“Tremendously,” James said. He was breathless, too, on account of his exertions, but his attentions never faltered. “I went to him the following evening and demanded it again.”

“You must have taken it well.”

James kissed the jut of his shoulder. “Not so well as you,” he said. “I was wild and skittish, and he was stern with me. You are a marvel, Francis. You take it magnificently.” He looped his free arm under Francis’ chest and made to grasp Francis’ cock, which had sprung back to tumescence. His fingertips grazed the head, and Francis jerked at the divine relief it brought.

But he would finish as James plainly wished him to. “No,” he said, panting. “Here.” He folded James’ hand in his own and guided it away from his cock to his lips—first to kiss chastely, next to lave James’ fingers with his tongue. 

“Yes, yes, ah, let me—” James said, ragged.

A question that Francis needed no pause to answer. He parted his lips, and at once his mouth received two querying fingers. They stroked at the smooth lining within, roved around his teeth, toward the back of his throat. He pursed his lips to make a tight suction around them, and they retreated, spit-slick, grazing his lower lip and leaving a wet trail in their wake. Then they pushed back into his mouth with a newfound urgency and began to mimic the same swift, unsparing rhythm James pursued below.

Francis trembled at the bright flare of arousal that bloomed in his belly. He was beset, overcome. _Filled_ everywhere he opened, as though their bodies were stitched together from head to toe. He uttered a muffled mewling noise around the intrusion in his mouth, now far back enough to choke. His cock pulsed and ached as his throat worked around it. _James, my dearest, please_ , he would say if he could speak. _Have mercy._ He was close.

“That’s it,” James breathed into his ear, battering at Francis with all the strength he could summon. “Nearly there.”

The moment of crisis arrived. As Francis clenched around the fingers in his arse and sank his teeth into the ones crowding his mouth, he heard James moan his name—wonderingly, beseechingly, like Francis had granted him a singularly precious pleasure. 

Francis sucked in great gasps of air. His vision fizzled at the periphery, and he closed his eyes, sinking into the comfort of darkness as his muscles seized up and released in a frenzied pattern. James coaxed him through it, with murmurs so low and tender Francis could not discern their shape. In due course, Francis registered the careful retreat of James’ fingers; he mourned their weight inside him.

“Francis,” James said quietly. He prodded at Francis’ shoulder, and Francis obliged by rolling over. James slung a leg over Francis’, drawing him in so close their noses brushed, and brought their mouths together. Francis’ chest still heaved and burned from the exertion, but he would give all his air to James—let James steal his breath, the very quintessence of his soul.

When they broke apart, James leveled him with a look that Francis had learned to read long ago. “Yes,” he said. “Yourself?”

James indicated the mess striping the sheets beneath him. “Your handiwork.”

Francis raised an eyebrow. “Truly?”

“When you took my fingers in your mouth, well.” He shrugged. 

“Christ, James,” Francis said, shaking his head. But had James not declared: _You inflame me like this?_

James turned and stretched his arms over his head in a bit of clearly practiced coquetry, then chewed his lip, deliberating. “Tell me, Francis. Could you feel—” He looked away. “Ah, it’s no matter.”

“Go on.”

James reached out and pushed Francis’ forelock, which had fallen into disarray, back into place. “Sometimes, when you have me, I feel as though I am overflowing with you, taking so much of you into myself. More than your prick, I mean. More than seems possible to stuff inside one man, though there is always room somehow. And so I thought, here, to return it, to press all of me—my love—back into you.” He let out a bruised huff of laughter. “Oh, forgive my idiotic notions, Francis. It is nothing.”

“James, no,” Francis said, frowning even as his heart swelled near to bursting. He schooled his features into gentleness, let his brow unknit itself. “I understand, I do. Everything. And I felt it, I promise you.” He leaned in to kiss James once more and basked in the lightness that stole over James’ face. “Your hands are very large besides,” he added. “Made expressly for such a diversion, some might say.”

“That I will not deny.” James grinned wide. It curved the gashes in his cheeks into delighted crescents, creased the skin at the corners of his eyes into a dozen fine lines.

Francis loved to see him so. He took hold of James’ hands—calloused and knotted with scars, but beautiful all the same—and cradled them in his own, savoring their warmth against his chest. “Made for this, too,” he said.


End file.
